It started as a routine check-up. I went in to be measured and weighed and talk about new baby things and the new name that we have picked out if it's a girl. The doctor and I laugh as we talk about morning sickness and strange cravings. I'm lucky to not have any of them. I'm to hear my baby's heartbeat for the first time this check-up. It's still early though... The doctor has a hard time picking up the heartbeat... after trying for several minutes, she tells me she can't hear it yet, but not to worry, because that is sometimes normal. She sends me upstairs to have an ultrasound "just to make sure" and she tells me she will see me next month.
While lying on the table with a full bladder and a machine pressing into my abs I notice subtle differences that unnerve me. Last time, the ultrasound tech turns the monitor towards me so I can see my baby. Last time she laughed and joked with me. This time, she is silent with her eyes fixed on the screen and the screen fixed on her. She calls in a second tech, who asks me if I've experienced any bleeding.
No.
"But I've had dreams about it. They say your dreams get more vivid when you are pregnant." I offer, hoping this will explain whatever she's thinking.
"Funny how the mind works." she mumbles to me.
My heart sinks.
They finish. Let me use the bathroom, then tell me to go back down to the doctor. I sit alone in the sterile room, thinking about my friend in Thailand
I'm not stupid. I know where this road is headed.
The doctor walks in. The same doctor that an hour ago told me not to worry. She hands me a pamphlet that reads "When miscarriage happens" and gives me an empty hug that feels handed out as many times as the pamphlets. She tells me things I already know. It's not my fault. These things happen without reason. The chromosomes weren't right. She tells me the baby died a month ago and my body didn't expel it. She called it a "missed abortion". She then tells me that I need to have surgery as soon as possible to have "it" removed. I remember cringing at the word "it". She sets up another appointment across town and leaves me in the room with the 5 page pamphlet explaining my predicament and a few Kleenexes.
I break down in the car and call whoever I can think of. Andy. Mom. My work. I head across town to pick up Andy from work. We go to the hospital where another Doctor asks if he can do the procedure today to remove "what's left". Still spinning, we agree to return at 3:30. They give us more miscarriage pamphlets and another one explaining what a D&C surgery is. Something I wouldn't wish on my worst enemy.
We take a trip to the store to buy a pair of sweatpants for after the surgery. Possibly the only normal part of my day. The only part of the day I remember smiling.
Back at the hospital, I'm asked a lot of questions about family, religious practices, and one about living wills and power of attorney that catches me off guard. Andy holds my hand the whole time. I strip and put on a sterile gown and cover up with a sterile blanket. They insert an IV that is the first physical pain I've felt all day. Andy gives me a kiss and tells me he'll see me when I come out. He is handed a card with a number on it. A way to monitor my surgery. I am now refered to as a number.
I wake up covered from head to toe and packed into warm blankets. A cocoon. I imagine this is what it's like to be in a womb. Andy will later tell me I kept repeating that "They took it. They took my baby" but I won't remember. I groggily wake up and I am sent home. The doctor is gone and I never see him. The nurse on my case doesn't wait for me to wake up before she changes shifts with another nurse. A testament to how common my procedure really is.
I feel as though I've been kicked out of some type of club, and I'm starting over. I am no longer pregnant.
People have offered condolences that I don't want to hear. They give advice that sounds like "At least you lost it before it was born." And "Your body knew there was something wrong with it." But at the end of that Monday, it was what it was.
I had lost my first child.
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